


peanut butter vibes

by nishtabel



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, Hand Feeding, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Post-War: Verdant Wind route, Trans Caspar von Bergliez, Trans Male Character, minor food kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:48:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26738377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishtabel/pseuds/nishtabel
Summary: Ashe smiles, honeyed and sharp. It’s a look that makes Caspar melt. “Do as I say, hm?”Caspar shudders and closes his eyes, hands working awkwardly at his side until they settle limply over his chest. “Is this good enough for you?”Ashe hums his approval. “Perfect,” he says, because he’s learned that Caspar likes praise. When he glances to check, he sees the flush on Caspar’s face glowing brighter. “You took care of me, so let me do the same.”Or: Caspar and Ashe have a picnic.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert
Comments: 7
Kudos: 41





	peanut butter vibes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurnion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurnion/gifts).



> thank you so much to [sparrow](twitter.com/agneasparrow) for commissioning me! this was my first time writing caspar, and i had SO much fun. thanks for trusting me with this ship! 💕
> 
> **NOTE:** caspar is trans in this fic! all terms used are amab.

They arrive in Aegir territory shortly after midnight, travel-weary and stinking of sweat. Ashe would complain more, but—Caspar seems to glow with it, armor bruised and muddied with peat moss, face bright and pink with exertion.

“Friends!” Ferdinand cries when they enter, arms stretched wide in his loose night robe. “I thought you wouldn’t arrive for another couple of days, at least! Oh, Mercie, darling, we have company—”

Mercie pokes her head from the kitchen doorway with a small smile, somewhat apologetic. “I know, honey,” she says, voice much lower than her husband’s. “I heard when they arrived.”

“Oh,” says Ferdinand after a pause. “Yes, I suppose you would have.”

Mercie shows them to their rooms with startling efficiency, bringing them a plate of freshly baked bread and jam. “A midnight snack,” she says with a wink, before moving for the door. “Oh, also—there’s hot water in the bathroom, if you’d like to take a bath. I’ll have someone bring milk for your kitty, too!” She waves at Loog, oblivious and curled at the hearth. “If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask, alright?”

“Alright,” Ashe agrees.

The rest of the evening is a blur in the smog of Ashe’s exhaustion, but he does manage a bath, and by the time he crawls into bed, Caspar is snoring gently. He wraps himself around Caspar’s warm, clean body and drifts quickly into a dead sleep.

* * *

They wake up late the next morning, groggy and disoriented in the silk sheets of von Aegir’s estates. After a quick breakfast, Mercie packs them a lunch and shoos them out the back door, kissing them each on the cheek before folding a purring Loog over her shoulder and bustling away. She looks happy, Ashe thinks; her smiles are brighter and her hands are dirtier, and it looks like she’s gained some muscle in her shoulders. “I’m still the lady of the house,” she’d confided earlier to Ashe, “but—that’s mostly for appearances, isn’t it?” And she’d giggled in a way that had made Ashe blush to his toes.

They pick their way through the woods on Mercie’s direction, following the path she’d promised would lead them to a small clearing of wildflowers. When they find it, Ashe gasps with wonder and says, “Oh, Caspar, it’s so pretty!”

Caspar sets the basket down with a grunt, hands on his hips as he surveys the meadow. “It’s nice,” he says. Then, as though suddenly inspired, he blurts, “Oh! I was gonna say—” There’s color on his cheeks. “I wanna feed you.”

Ashe blinks, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Okay,” he says, tentative.

“That’s cute, right? Like—that’s a cute thing that couples do.”

“Yeah,” Ashe agrees. “I mean, yeah, I think it’s cute.”

Caspar nods. “Great! Excellent.”

They set up a thin, checkered blanket and their packs before unpacking the basket; it’s stuffed full of fresh greens and ripe vegetables, still-warm loaves of bread, butter, preserves, and a variety of desserts. Caspar goes for the desserts first, saying, “You like sweet stuff, right?”

“Yeah,” Ashe says, because he does.

Caspar has him lie back against their packs, neck cushioned and head propped on their makeshift pillows. He takes his time deciding which sweet to start with, picking over the many, little tarts that Mercie had packed, but he makes up his mind with a nod and a quiet word under his voice. He brings it to Ashe’s mouth with a steady hand and waits for Ashe to open his mouth. The first bite is delectable, soft and smooth and sweet how Ashe likes it. Caspar holds the tart level for him, pupils blown wide as he watches Ashe chew thoughtfully; there’s a tension in the air that sits thick between them. Ashe feels peaceful, calm, even as heat stirs in his belly.

“How does it taste?” asks Caspar, voice as bright as ever. There’s color on his cheeks, right behind his sun-kissed freckles. “It looks good.”

Ashe swallows with a smile, licking his lips as he opens his mouth for more. “It’s amazing,” he says. “Mercie’s really outdone herself, I think. If you want, I can—”

“No,” Caspar says intently, his eyes still trained on Ashe’s face. “I want to do this for you, yeah?”

“Alright,” Ashe relents, warmth curling in his chest. “As you like.”

Caspar feeds him like that, just like that: little pieces of minced meats and candied fruits, bites of tarts and sweetmeats and pies. His fingers brush Ashe’s lips with each bite, and while they don’t acknowledge it, the air grows warm between their bodies; Caspar’s lips are parted in concentration, lashes fluttering with each flick of Ashe’s tongue.

“Which—” Caspar’s voice cracks. “Which is your favorite?”

Ashe considers, leaning back on his elbows and pursing his lips. There’s a bit of jam at the corner of his mouth and he licks it off, savoring the taste as well as the way Caspar’s eyes follow the movement. “The candied pecans are really tasty,” he says, slowly. “But those little tarts—the lemony ones, I think? Those are _so_ good. I don’t think I’ve had them before, have you?”

Caspar says, “Oh, I don’t know, actually,” before tossing one whole into his mouth. His eyes light up as he chews, and Ashe laughs when he says, through a mouthful of food, “Oh, shit. These are good.”

“I told you.” Ashe glances around, peering inside the basket. “Is that all?”

“Oh,” says Caspar, “no, not at all. Are you—still hungry?”

“Always,” Ashe admits, and laughs as he says it. “But why don’t you let me treat you, first?”

Caspar huffs, color rising high on his cheeks. He glances away and says, “I’m trying to be _romantic_ , Ashe.”

“And you’re doing a great job!” Ashe says, leaning up to press a kiss against Caspar’s cheek. “I just want to return the favor. Will you let me?”

Caspar looks for a moment like he might refuse, cheeks puffed and mouth turned in a petulant pout, but he relents when his stomach rumbles loudly between them. Ashe laughs harder than he should, clapping his hands together as he reaches for the nearest jam. “Is that a yes?” he asks sweetly.

“ _Fine_ ,” Caspar relents, dusting his hands on his pants before crossing his arms. He still looks oddly shy, nose scrunched, and Ashe feels himself float on the sudden rush of fondness.

“Alright. Lie back,” Ashe says, voice pitching deeper. Caspar shivers at the sound of it and does as he’s told. “Prop yourself up on our packs, just a little—perfect. Now close your eyes.”

Caspar shoots him a sharp look. “What—”

Ashe smiles, honeyed and sharp. It’s a look that makes Caspar melt. “Do as I say, hm?”

Caspar shudders and closes his eyes, hands working awkwardly at his side until they settle limply over his chest. “Is this good enough for you?”

Ashe hums his approval. “Perfect,” he says, because he’s learned that Caspar likes praise. When he glances to check, he sees the flush on Caspar’s face glowing brighter. “You took care of me, so let me do the same.”

The first treat Ashe chooses is simple enough: a crispy, sugared pecan, tacky against his fingers when he presses it to the warmth of Caspar’s parted lips. Caspar accepts it with a small grunt, chewing briefly before swallowing it and opening his mouth for more. Ashe giggles and obliges, offering three more until his hands are sticky with sugar and syrup. Caspar keeps his eyes closed through it all, and Ashe thinks to praise him, but he offers a final task, first:

“Clean my fingers,” he says, a demand for all its softness. Caspar’s brows rise to his hairline in surprise, but his eyes stay closed, and Ashe smiles. He traces his fingers along Caspar’s lower lip, slick from where he’d wet it in his moment of shock. Caspar’s tongue catches Ashe’s fingers tentatively, hotly, and once Ashe says, “Good boy, Caspar,” Caspar’s chest reverberates with a groan.

He doesn’t let his fingers linger; Caspar does his job well, sucking them each into his mouth with a trained fervor until they’re clean and smooth. He ignores the way that Caspar chases them when he pulls his hand away, although it does make his heart swell, heat pooling between his legs at the sight. 

When he offers the next treat, a slice of candied peach, Caspar is messier than before. Ashe won’t let him take the entire thing into his mouth, so he has to bite into it, and the juice that bursts from the fruit coats his lips and trails down the sides of his face. Ashe watches as his throat works, swallowing around the rush of fluid and chewing tenderly at the soft flesh of the peach. Caspar has barely opened his mouth for more by the time Ashe presses the rest of the treat to his lips, squeezing just hard enough to flood Caspar’s mouth once more. He’s careful not to choke Caspar, monitoring the frantic bobbing of his throat, but there’s a part of him that thrills at the idea of Caspar taking in a bit more than he can handle.

He knows Caspar is thinking the same thing, too.

When Caspar gasps and clears his throat, cheeks streaked with juice, Ashe asks, “How was it?”

Caspar’s voice is hoarse when he responds. “Very good,” he says, licking his lips and shifting against the blanket. Ashe doesn’t miss the way his thighs flex, the way he crosses one knee over the other; he knows that if he reached between his legs now, he’d find Caspar hot and slick. Caspar’s eyes blink open momentarily, before he remembers himself and clenches them shut again. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, shaking his head. Then, turning his head to face Ashe: “Is there any more?”

Ashe touches the side of Caspar’s cheek, dragging his thumb through the tracks of sticky sugar. “Of course,” he says, sinful and sweet. “Would you like more?”

Caspar nods, eagerness betrayed by the speed of his movement. When Ashe doesn’t immediately respond, he tries, “Yes, please,” because Ashe has trained him well.

“Very good,” Ashe says, and reaches for the blackberry preserves. He briefly considers using a cracker, or maybe some cheese, but—he likes the idea of Caspar licking the mess directly from his fingers. He imagines that Caspar will, too. “This will be the last one, alright?”

Caspar frowns in spite of his earlier mood, clearly upset. “Why?” Caspar asks, because he’s still so honest with his feelings.

Ashe hums, twisting the lid from the jar and dipping two fingers inside. Caspar had fed him some earlier, spread across the surface of a biscuit, but _now_ —now Ashe scoops it onto his fingers, relishing the slick stickiness of the jam. “Open your mouth,” he says to Caspar, and shuffles over on his knees to sit beside him. Caspar is eager to please at this point, mouth open a bit wider than necessary, lips pink and swollen. When Ashe holds his fingers to Caspar’s mouth and says, “Suck,” Caspar whines, taking Ashe’s fingers between his lips with a loud groan.

Caspar is good with his tongue, practiced and confident in the way he slips it between Ashe’s fingers and curls beneath his nails. He keeps his eyes closed even as his eyelashes flutter with the desire to open, to _look_ , and Ashe can see his eyes moving beneath his pale lids. He’s being so _good_ , and Ashe can’t help but to pump his fingers in and out of Caspar’s wet mouth, lazy and shallow and very, very clear.

Caspar moans loudly, mouth falling open around Ashe’s fingers with the force of his desire. “Did I say you could stop?” Ashe asks, nudging him with a knee. “I don’t think you’ve done a good enough job.”

Caspar’s mouth closes around his fingers immediately, sucking with increased fervor as Ashe continues to thrust his fingers lazily against Caspar’s tongue. His own cock is half-hard in his trousers, and he can see Caspar shifting eagerly against the blanket with each twist of Ashe’s fingers. Ashe presses deep once, twice, before pulling his fingers from Caspar’s mouth with a lewd _pop_ and wiping them on Caspar’s shirt.

“Good boy,” Ashe says, delighting in the way that Caspar’s face lights up. “Would you like another?”

He can see the gears working in Caspar’s mind, torn between a desperate _yes_ and something else unnamed. Finally, Caspar rasps, “Yes,” and then, quickly, “I mean, no, but—”

“You can open your eyes,” Ashe says, because he misses the blown-out look that Caspar gets when Ashe teases him. Caspar’s eyes open with a flash, as though they’ve been held shut by nothing but Caspar’s fraying willpower. Perhaps they have. “What do you want?”

Caspar groans again, shifting uncomfortably and bumping his hip against Ashe’s knee. He can’t meet Ashe’s eye when he says, quietly, almost shyly, “You.”

“Are you sure?” Ashe asks, bringing a hand to toy with the laces at Caspar’s tunic. He takes a moment to be serious, letting himself check in with Caspar. “I don’t want to push you.”

“No,” Caspar says, clearly tormented. “I. I want—you. I mean—” He makes a frustrated noise, and Ashe lets him. “Not. All of you. Just—can we. You know.”

Ashe smiles warmly, sweetly, because he knows that Caspar struggles with this kind of communication, but he doesn’t want to put words in his mouth. “Can you be a little more specific?”

Caspar frowns, clearly searching for words. At last he says, “I want you to touch me,” and then, after a pause, “and I want to touch. You.”

“Alright,” Ashe says easily, and slips onto his side next to Caspar. “Do you want me to lead?”

Caspar nods before saying, “Yes, please,” because Ashe needs him to verbalize.

“Alright,” says Ashe again, and leans in to kiss Caspar. It’s slow at first, always slow, in part because Caspar gets so easily overwhelmed—but also because Ashe is _aching_ and he wants to last. When he licks into Caspar’s mouth he tastes syrup and sugar, ripe fruit and honey. He chases the taste as Caspar moans around him, hot and wet and absolutely perfect. He pulls back with a lingering kiss to Caspar’s parted lips, nuzzling at his sticky cheek before asking, “Can I touch you?”

“ _Yes_.” Caspar nods his head frantically, turning onto his side in order to pull Ashe closer. His hands tremble against Ashe’s hips where they sneak beneath his tunic, and Ashe smiles.

“Good boy,” he says, just to watch Caspar glow. He follows the thick bob of his throat with his tongue and teeth, biting kisses into the pale skin as he sinks his fingers into the waistband of Caspar’s trousers. The laces are easy enough to undo, clumsily tied as they are—Ashe hasn’t lost his touch, and Caspar always shivers when Ashe shows off how _deft_ he can be. He doesn’t tease now, though, instead chasing Caspar’s heat with a single-minded confidence; he finds Caspar’s cock jutting slick and hard between his legs.

Caspar twitches against him, clutching frantically at Ashe as Ashe thumbs sweetly at his dick. “Fuck,” he says, and Ashe smiles against his throat. He can feel Caspar’s pulse thumping in his jugular, loud and steady and fast. When Ashe slips his hand lower still, threading his fingers through Caspar’s thick hair, Caspar shudders and bears down against his hand. “Wait, wait—”

Ashe stops, but does not move his hand. Instead, he pauses to glance up at Caspar’s face, flushed pink and damp with sweat. “What is it?”

“I wanna.” Caspar swallows audibly before setting his shoulders. Then, loudly and confidently: “I said I wanted to touch you, too.”

“Oh,” Ashe says, and presses a soft kiss to the underside of Caspar’s jaw. “Of course! Of course.” He shifts so that Caspar can work a hand between them, crossing wrists with Ashe as he shoves his hand inside of Ashe’s pants. It’s an awkward angle to be sure, but they’re also in the middle of the woods in Aegir territory, so Ashe can’t complain—especially not when Caspar’s rough, callused hand finds his cock and _squeezes_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Ashe cries, giggling then at the force of his voice. “You’re rubbing off on me, I think,” he says as an afterthought, referring, of course, to the volume of his voice, but—

Caspar wiggles his eyebrows. “That’s exactly what I’m doing,” he says, and Ashe melts against him with laughter. Caspar’s hand grasps him neatly, firmly, thumb toying with the head as his rough palm teases his shaft. 

Ashe lets Caspar find his rhythm, waits for his own hips to slip into a steady rolling, before he begins to move his hand again—and when he does, he feels another rush of precum slick his fingers. “Caspar,” he gasps, playing at scandalized. “I had no idea—”

“You knew.” Caspar laughs into his hair, tugging harder at Ashe’s cock with each steady flick of Ashe’s thumb. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t, Ashe, you—” He gasps, wiggling down against Ashe’s hand and whining just a bit when two of Ashe’s fingers breach his hole. “ _Ooh_ , I know you planned this whole thing. You’re a devious one, Ashe Duran.”

Ashe hums in response, grazing his teeth along the subtle curve of Caspar’s collarbone. He won’t deny it. “Caught me,” he says, curling his fingers in invitation—and Caspar bears down against him, clutching tighter still at Ashe’s hip for purchase. He won’t press all the way in, but he will tease at it; Caspar seems to prefer that, anyway. He can tell Caspar’s close by the way his breathing picks up, by the way Caspar worries bruises into his hold on Ashe’s ass—by the way his gasps become moans become wails, and when Ashe pinches his cock between two fingers, rolling, Caspar shakes apart beside him.

Caspar’s orgasms are always long and messy, painting Ashe’s hand with cum. It’s endearing, actually, to know how much Caspar loves it—how much he loves Ashe’s fingers, his tongue, his cock. As he recovers, he says it out loud, too: “ _Fuck_ ,” he says, hand moving lazily on Ashe’s cock, “that was. Goddess. You— _mm_.”

Ashe withdraws his hand and wipes it against the blanket before pulling Caspar in for a long kiss, filthy and open-mouthed, thrusting into the loose, humid circle of Caspar’s fingers. He finds his release quickly, too, cresting just as Caspar twists his palm over the head of Ashe’s dick and bites his lower lip. “Shit,” Ashe moans, loudly and directly into Caspar’s mouth. “Caspar— _Caspar_.”

Their kiss melts into something softer as Ashe comes down, shivering slightly in the afterglow of his orgasm. They’re both dirty, he realizes somewhat distantly: backs damp with the dew that’s soaked through the blanket, stuck fast with grass and twigs, hair damp with sweat and pants stick with cum. It’s a far cry from how he’d felt last night, and yet—he has to admit, they look much the same.

“What are you laughing about?” Caspar asks, groggy in the wake of his orgasm. “Something funny?”

Ashe smiles, bumping his forehead against Caspar’s. “No,” he says, curling closer. “Just you.”

Caspar seems to consider this, stilling for a moment against Ashe, before saying, “Oh. I guess that’s alright, then.”

“Yeah,” Ashe says. “Love you, though.”

Caspar barks laughter. “Love you, too.”

They bask, warm in the sun and vaguely sticky, until Caspar says, “Actually, are there any snacks left?”

**Author's Note:**

> i have a [twitter](twitter.com/nishtabel)


End file.
